SON OF GRIDKNOCKER

Bit of lateral thinking coming up here, peeps. Probably far and away too sensible to ever get beyond first base when the Plough Lane suits take a look at it. TKMax is emigrating across the road to the Edgar Street Grid. The liquidator is going to have a hellava job finding a new anchor tenant for the vacated two-level space, yet Maylords without a powerful anchor will shrivel on the vine (sorry, I've got a feeling that there's three mixed metaphors in there already!). Right, ready? Offer the space to Herefordshire Council to fit out at its own expense as a new City Library (the Victorian building in Broad Street could eventually be turned into a full-scale Museum, Art Gallery & Visitor Centre with a whole gallery dedidicated to poor old Brian Hatton, whose family got well and truly stuffed some years ago when the gallery they'd paid to have built up in Churchill Gardens was closed by the Council). Good civic libraries are hugely successful anchors: take a look at Cardiff or see the crowds who flock into Worcester's wonderful Hive. Comments please?

Fortunately for Hereford Voice followers, Grid Knocker only deals in 24ct bona fide facts, unlike Ragwert, who clearly inhabits a parallel universe to the rest of us. One cushioned from the realities of this harsh Cameron / Osborne-inflicted world by bullish Press Releases from Stanhope, and optimistic briefings from British Land media men. A Nenadich Never-Never land, filled with shops brimming with affordable goods, with fat jolly Jonathan-Bretherton-lookalike shopkeepers welcoming customers with beaming smiles. FACT: In September 2013, the BBC reported that a national survey of high street vacancies, undertaken by the Local Data Company (go to http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-24032264 to verify this) showed a 14% vacancy rate in all English high streets. New 'empty shop' stats are due out next week. FACT: Lining the perimeter of High Town are 52 shop units or business premises, of which 12 are currently standing empty and unlet (Colin has photographs of several of them above on this thread). That is a vacancy rate of 23%. FACT: From the above, it would be a fair and accurate conclusion - which no retailing economist would dispute (though doubtless Ragwert will be able to put a Stanhope / British Land 'spin' on) - that Hereford's premier trading position is currently 50% worse off than the average English high street.

@ 'Ragwert' (sic). The British Retail Consortium's all-England town centre high street vacancy figure is 11.3%. In Hereford's High Town, 20% of all the shop units are currently empty. That seems to indicate to me that things are worse than the national average. And this is three months before the disastrous impact which established traders in the city will feel when the gruesome Edgar Street Grid is opened!

A very depressing photo gallery, Colin. In October, the British Retailers Association (which monitors empty shops in high streets) said that the national average of vacant shop units was just over 11%. In High Town the figure is currently 20%!

Hey up Peeps...I don't know whether I'm the bringer of good or bad tidings. My brother lives at Snooty Clifton in Bristol and it is his habit of a Boxing Day to take a stroll across the famous suspension bridge with his family. He rang me in high excitement this morning to say that a large crowd of onlookers was lining one side of the bridge, gazing down onto the Avon Gorge's mud flats. He naturally thought that it was just another suicide which was gaining the macabre attention of these sad Bristolian rubber-neckers. But no. In conversation with a member of the local Ploddery ("Nothing to see here; move along please.") he learnt that the tiny upturned figure, half-buried in the brown sludge below, clad in white tights and skimpy blue shorts, was thought by the constabulary's aviary experts to be a little-known Alaskan goose, off-course for winter migration in the Azores. He told my brother that when the tide came in they intended to collect it up in a large keep net and move it to the Sir Peter Scott Bird Sanctuary near Gloucester for the rest of the winter.

A pedant enquires: so what's your definition of a 'huge' topic', Colin? S'pose, frixample, I needed to notify fellow Hereford Voice posters that John Jarvis was the Messiah (Strictly Edgar Street Grid, Messiah, you understand) and that we could hear these words as he preached from the roof of the Garrick House multi-stoey car park - once Hoarwithy Doggers had been discreetly removed - wearing a Druid vestment, with his right trouser leg rolled up to his knee, chanting: "Hear me, oh you doubters. This Blessed Retail Development, which has even been created in the name of, and for the exclusive profit of, British Land and its multifarious shareholders, shall forever - well for 250 years, anyway - be worshipped by those who come from far off places like Bromyard and Bullingham and Bolitree, bearing previously-used plastic carrier bags, saying 'Wait Rose Oh Wait Rose!' And, as at Walsingham, a holy fountain will deliver purified water (£1.99p in sealed half-litre containers, each carrying a facsimile signature of His Jarvisness). I'm mean, is that what you'd classify as over-long?

Drones, mate - that's where you went wrong (or, rather, that bloody silver-tongued agent of yours did). They're very accurate, you know: like keyhole surgery. You should've started the bar bending and buzzard business in Capuchin Lane, got the pre-Christmas crowds gathered round. Then, just when people were thinking: 'how does this man do these amazing acts? He's like David Blaine, but better looking' - got those buggers from Credenhall to send over one of their MkIII Patricias (that's the new purple and green aerodynamic model drone). Could've taken off both your legs at the knee joint. Just like that. Would've brought the house down. And most of Capuchin Lane too, probably.

@Two Wheels: because of your obvious knowledge of the ESG scheme and planning matters in general, can you answer this question please:- Both on the published plan above (which I accept is probably inaccurate) and also physically on the ground, the space between the curved brick facade of the Debenhams building and the real life road's kerb (on which the site hoarding is presently perched) seems perilously narrow. No more than one metre, perhaps? Here comes the question: How is it possible that highly-paid professionally-qualified council planners allowed the developers such latitude, when the department store's set-back should have been - oh I don't know - at least 10 metres?

Bobby's Severance & Remuneration celebration at the Plough Inn turned out to be quite a party, finishing in the early hours. Dippy, Flam, Two Wheels and Biomech all came to wish the King all the best in his well-cushioned retirement. Even Simon Brown turned up and recited all 22 verses of 'The Good Ship Venus', accompanied by Ubique on the bugle. Net receipts after exiting the Plough Lane Lubyanka were just under £165K, but after the knees-up this was reduced to circa £163K. In The Barrels the next morning, we heard on Radio Hereford & Worcester that the Crown Prosecution Service's action for damage to the dance floor of the Saxon Hall had been dropped, because documents relating to the incident had been accidentally shredded by Hoople. Bobby was busy studying holiday brochures. "Hey, d'you realise that with my savings me and the missus could rent a villa with a swimming pool on Gozo for three months? The fishing out there's supposed to be brilliant. You could even come and visit us if you wanted to." I suddenly sounded like Vince Cable. "Don't you think you ought to be thinking about investing some of the money, Bobby?" "Let's talk about in on Gozo, shall we?" he said, pouring me another Carlsberg Special Brew. ................................................................................................................ I caught up with him a few days later, fishing the Wye with Dippy Hippy below the re-branded Jesse Norman Cycle Bridge. As Dippy wryly observed: "It's like giving him the keys to the city; only trouble is this council's so broke they can't afford to have the bloody keys cut!" All around, the bank was festooned with villa brochures. Two barbel rods were tethered by the river's edge, one fitted with a state-of-the-art Shimano reel. I gently steered the subject away from villa holidays towards 'fiscal prudence' (as the lugubrious Mr Cable would have put it), pulling from my coat pocket a copy of the Hereford Times. Beneath their lead story about three shale gas sites being identified in the county, there was a news item headlined: 'Council Turners to go under the hammer.' "I see the council is having another of its 'fire sales'. Fancy going along? You never know, there could be one or two bargains to be picked up." Bobby and I arranged to meet in the lounge of the Green Dragon an hour before the sale to go through the catalogue. Jenny, the hotel's long-serving waitress, informed us that the new management had banned the sale of Carlsberg Special Brews before 10.00am. We settled for coffee. I'd marked three items for Bobby to peruse. "Lot 84: a charcoal self-portrait by Brian Hatton. Wasn't he the militant left-winger from Liverpool?" "That was Derek Hatton. Brian Hatton was a Hereford war artist. Killed in the First World War." "And what's this you've marked: Lot 97 - former Mayoral limousine? Where the heck am I going to park a 1954 Austin Princess? We're double-yellowed all down our street and the missus uses the garage for drying pumpkin seeds. Hey up - Lot 110 looks promising: 'The entire Left Bank complex. Guide price: £150,000.' What d'you reckon, mate? Make a tidy skittle alley. I could even fish from the car park at the back!" We agreed we would bid for Lot 110. The ballroom was packed with well over 200 people. Seated at the green baize table on the stage was Crudwells' auctioneer, flanked by a rather nervous-looking Leader Councillor Johnson and Councillor Patricia Morgan, in a garish lavender and emerald green outfit. She'd even had her hair streaked purple and green. The auctioneer wore a green plaid sports jacket, a Cathedral Old Boys tie and half-moon specs. In pride of place behind them hung one of the five Turner oil paintings. Things moved along rapidly, though there were precious few bargains. A copper coalscuttle from the Mayor's Parlour fetched £135 and even the Town Hall doormat went for £60. After a wooden bus shelter at Lyonshall failed to reach its reserve, I nudged Bobby. "Should be us next." We held our breath. Bidding was sluggish and stuck at £78,000. "Seems like a snip, mate," I whispered and up went Bobby's hand. "Thank you, sir. £80,000 from the floor. Are we all done?" Bang went the gavel. "Sold to the gent in the black Barbour fishing hat." "Now, ladies and gentlemen, we move on to one of the highlights of today's sale. Lot 110: the award-winning Left Bank complex. May I start the bidding at £100,000?" An ashen-faced Bobby turned to me. "So what've I just bought?" I hurriedly consulted the catalogue. "Errm...Lot 109: a redundant 4-acre smallholding near Much Marcle. Not cultivated since 1987." "A smallholding? What do I want with a bloody smallholding?" he wailed. I looked at my shoes and wished a hole would appear in the ballroom floor to swallow me up. As we slunk out, Cllr Morgan gave Bobby a big grin. "So that's what's known as fiscal prudence, is it?" asked Bobby as we cracked open our first Special Brews of the day in the Queens Arms. "With buyer's commission and the poxy VAT, I'm now £121,000 worse off than when I got up this morning for my first ciggie! There's barely £40K left in the bloody kitty, and the missus has gone down to Cardiff to buy her outfits for Gozo!" After another brace of Carlsbergs we decided we'd better go and take a look at the smallholding. The Tom Tom on Bobby's car was on the blink and we tried to locate the site via the map in the auction catalogue. An evil freezing mist was coming down and we got hopelessly lost outside Ledbury. We stopped to ask directions from an old boy sitting smoking outside a pub. "Straight on towards Rudhall til you gits to the brook. Then look for a rusty fingerpost pointing to Blackshaw's Bottom. It's up there." We drove on, silently wondering whether this was an unfortunate portent. Marked by a Crudwells signboard (the number 109 would forever be my nemesis), we found Bobby's plot tucked away in a fetid hollow. 'Not cultivated since 1987' was a wild understatement: you couldn't see the soil for brambles and ground elder. He'd also inherited three matresses, five fridges and a washing machine. "I've bought a bloody tip! The missus is not going to be at all happy," he muttered, kicking a rusty oil drum. Just then we heard the sound of a vehicle coming along the track. It was a gigantic black Quasimodo 4x4 with smoked glass windows, and a dazzling array of spotlights across its roof like one of Eddie Stobart's lorries. Two oriental gents climbed out. They were wearing identical Mao jackets, blue denim slacks, rimless glasses and yellow hard hats. They bowed in unison. "We are from Shang Shen Surveying. Who is the owner of this land please?" "I am," said Bobby suspiciously. "We miss auction at Gleen Dragon due to satnav malfrunction. It take us to Hertford instead of Hereford. We had intended to bid for this site." A little bell rang in my brain, sending me a text message which read: 'Hey up, we might just be onto a winner her.' To his great credit, Bobby spotted the same 'window' and started playing hard-to-get. "'Fraid its not for sale, mate. Me and the missus is planning to cultivate...err...pumpkins here. It's always been her dream. In fact she's down in Cardiff Market right now buying pumpkin seeds." He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded sagely. "Our seismorrogists say epicentre of shale gas reserves is HERE!" He pointed dramatically at a clump of ground elder. "You not heard of fracking?" Bobby shook his head slowly. "The missus ain't going to be happy. She's set her heart on a pumpkin farm." "What is pumpkin, please?" "Deep-fried battered pumpkin and chips, covered with nettle and pig's trotter marmalade. Old Herefordshire delicay. Not 'eard of it?" "We are offrised by board of directors of Xiang Zao Fracking to make you a gerrous offer for the re-sale of your land. What you say to £150,000?" "'Fraid you'll need to do better than that, mate," said Bobby with commendable sangfroid. One of the surveyors pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, tapped in a number, then walked down the track, waving the other arm and screaming in Chinese. He suddenly wheeled round and strode back up to Bobby. "175,000?" Bobby screwed up his face and shook his head. "Nah, sorry mate." "£200,000! Final offer!" "Done!" shouted Bobby, shaking the man's hand vigourously and desptaching his i-phone irretrievably into the brambles. ............................................................................................................. Two days later Bobby and I walked out of my solicitors in Bridge Street and headed for the Black Lion. He'd signed a 50-year lease with the Chinese, with the land reverting to his grandchildren. After the Saxon Hall debacle and our expulsion from Plough Lane, his finances were now in the black once more to the tune of £240K. Even George Osborne would have admired our entrepreneurial skills. As we stepped into the saloon bar, ready to celebrate with a couple of Special Brews, a motley group of bobble-hatted marchers came across the Old Bridge. Their banner read: 'MUCH MARCLE SHALE GAS: NO FRACKING WAY!' The author wishes to make it clear that this is a work of fiction.

Completely agree with Dippy and the historic towns cited in the post: York, Stratford, Oxford. Add Salisbury, Norwich and Winchester to them. Can you really see any of these six turning a blind eye to a burnt-out shell in their city centres for three years? Or look across High Town to the poor old Butter Market. When was it Brother Bretherton launched that architectural design competition for cutting-edge commercial solutions for this 'jewel in the city's crown' (copyright for this overworked phrase: J.Jarvis)? Four years ago this month! And as for suggesting that English Heritage is some sort of architectural heritage police force. Perleaze! You might as well tell me that George Osborne understands how an abacus works!

Agree 100% with Simon, especially the bit about "...substantial fine...", just so long as it doesn't involve triggering a Judicial Review (horrendously expensive and about as fast-moving as the traffic along Newmarket Street). Like the new haircut, Simon. Very cool!

I believe the strumpet in question was not only a member of the Hoarwithy branch of Doggers UK, but is to be seen featured on the 2014 edition of the 'Girls in Waders' calendar (March, I believe, but that's just hear-say), available on the top shelf of all sleezy newsagents. So how many warning points for those transgressions, Colin?

Thanks one and all for your responses over the last four days. I said it weasn't riveting - but it's fast turning out to be downright depressing. I went out and about canvassing opinions. I even managed to speak to a former member of the board of the Rotherwas Enterprise Zone. The overwhelming reaction was that Herefordshire is signing up for an outdated (and hugely expensive) system, when cheaper state-of-the-art systems are available and in use by other local authorities. Check out IOC's official website for a very well-crafted statement from 'the opposition'. When I posed the question which I'd put up at the top of this thread at the beginning of the week (ie "Hasn't anybody thought about building a small state-of-the-art unit on one of the many cleared sites standing idle at Rotherwas, so that the energy generated could eventually be used to heat the new factories? Three people gave the identically-same reply to the one which Dippy posted last Wednesday: "Far too sensible!".

First off, I fully agree with Dippy that King Bobby, for his selfless contribution to the maintenance of community standards along the Wye's riverbanks, needs to receive one of those nice floral garlands from that nice Mr Nenaditch who runs that nice 'Positive Hereford' website (enough 'nices' Nick?). Secondly, I have nothing against The Masons per se. If grown men want to walk down Kerle Street with one trouser leg rolled up to their knee, then I say let 'em do it. It's a free country. Similarly, I've got nothing whatsoever against that Nigel Farage and his Monster Raving Looney Party. Good luck to 'em, I say. I'll not be voting for 'em come May 2015 - in fact I won't be voting at all that day 'cause I'll be watching telly. Though if that Liz Hurley was to stand for the Greens, and she came round canvassing in that dress that's just held together with safety pins, I think I might go up the Polling Station. Where was I? Oh yes - the Dogging Dilema. I wrote to Fffffiona about this, but she chose not to publish my letter, giving preference to some old geezer called Johnson who was banging on about coal or coalition or summat. Any road up, what I AM (raises voice for effect) getting exercised over is the news of the formation of the Hereford Masonic UKIP Dogging Association. I understand that it plans to meet on alternate Wednesdays (which is late shopping night) on the floodlit roof of the Garrick Street multi-storey car park. As I told Fffffiona, I fear that this could well have a deleterious effect on the footfall in the new Debenhams. And if they chose to close (like C&As did some years ago in Maylords) we'll be well and truly up the Swanee. That thumping great brick monstrosity, standing up there on the Tesco roundabout for the next 99 years! And all brought about because of the reckless depravity of Hoarwithy doggers. Good on yer Bobby; keep policing the Wye riverbanks!

@twowheels: a planning application for14 internally-illuminated signs, you say? Is it too late to send in a letter of objection to the somnambulant Mr Ashcroft - or is he in the Caribbean for the winter?

Thanks for that Jim. Re your reference to 'old man's thinking', I was interested to find in tomorrow's Cabinet papers (now open for inspection on the Council's website folks) that our old friends KPMG were called in - at what cost, one wonders - to run their fine tooth combs over the whole fandango. Their eventual conclusuon? "Go and seek professional advice before proceeding further with this joint-venture."

Not exactly a riveting topic I admit, but one which is likely to be in the headlines shortly. Yesterday (Tuesday) Worc CC held a public meeting to brief its council taxpayers on why it was getting into bed with Herefordshire Council to build a PFI-funded state-of-the-art waste incinerator. Each authority will be committed to divying up £350M for the new plant. Herefordshire's Cabinet is due to discuss the plan tomorrow (Thursday). What I would like to ask well-informed and knowledgable followers of The Voice is this: I was told that at one time HC considered building its own waste disposal unit at Rotherwas, as it would have produced sufficient energy from the waste's heat to be fed to the new factory units which we are told will one day grace the re-branded Skylon Park. This is such an emminently sensible eco-friendly idea that I think the person who told me was pulling my leg. Is there a grain of truth in this story?

dippy has asked (both with and without underling for effect) "Who gets the casting vote?" May I propose Dolly, the Salvation Army lady who sits in the lobby of the Butter Market wrapped in blankets? I was going to suggest Liz Hurley, but what with recent 'developments', I don't imagine Bobby47's going to let her out on here own!

@ Ragwert: "...would of hated..." should, perhaps, have been "...would have hated..."? But then I'm forgetting: you were once a member of the council's thrusting Media Communications Unit, weren't you?

King Bobby, once again, has wonderously opened all our eyes. The curved stained brick facade facing the Tesco roundabout is, indeed, a mystical symbol. Hereford is surely destined to become the 21st century Walsingham. Supermarket worshippers from across the country will come here in pilgrimage (with their own trolleys) to look up to venerate the salty effigy of Saint Tesco of Wonga and flowers - greater even that those left in memory of the Blessed Diana - wil bestrew the Tesco roundabout.

If you take yourself for a walk up in Churchill Gardens one fine day over the Christmas holiday (before this lovely urban green space goes under the hammer in the next council 'fire sale'!) you'll notice that all the many mature hardwoods up there have small engraved stone dedication plaques set into the turf near their bases. So if Stanhope / British Land plead poverty when asked where are all the trees which decorated the plans they submitted for planning permission in 2011, let's all offer to pay for a tree to be planted. I'd happily pay for a nice maple, so long as the plaque can read: "Grid Knocker's Maple."

Best of luck, Colin. If there's time (and I expect you've covered this already) photocopy for all those attending the meeting this afternoon, the letter in this week's HT from the lady who confirms categorically what you've been banging on about for yonks: viz - during busy rush-hour periods,when the lights are out the traffic moves; when the lights are on the traffic jams.

After the Saxon Hall debacle, I realised that I needed to make amends for the cost of the damage to the hall's ballroom floor, estimated at £50,000, which I'd been responsible for. Perhaps you saw the news item in the Hereford Journal? It's lurid headline read: 'Stonebow committal for man who trashed Saxon Hall'. It went on to report that the man (who couldn't be named for legal reasons) had been committed to secure accommodation in the Stonebow Unit, pending psychiatric tests. His defence to the charge of digging up the entire dance floor of the Saxon Hall, Bullingham, with a pick axe was that he'd received a message via the internet telling him that a Saxon treasure hoard was buried under the building, containing a gold, jewel-encrusted effigy of Zsa Zsa Gabor. The individual was the legendary poster Bobby47. And I'd posted the message. With the help of a friendly local solicitor I managed to secure his temporary release, pending the trial. Then Lady Luck smiled on us. There splashed across the Jobs Vacant section of the Hereford Ad Mag was this announcement: "Following the major restructuring of Heredordshire Council's senior management, Hoople is pleased to invite applications for the newly-created post of Director, Transmission (Urban & Rural) Delivery. Salary: £165K + benefits; 29-hour week; 10 weeks paid holiday; starting date: immediate." The acronym seemed somewhat unfortunate, but I downloaded the paperwork and by lunchtime had created an impressive job application and c.v. The icing on the cake was the box at the end which stated: "In no more than 200 words, please tell us why you believe you are suited for the post advertised." I managed to use the words 'deliver' or 'delivery' 37 times, plus 19 fit-for-purposes. Bobby happily signed the application and by teatime we'd handed it in at Plough Lane. We cracked open a couple of Carlsberg Special Brews. I was confident he'd be offered an interview and wasn't too worried about who he would be up against: the usual public sector dullards who traipse around the country looking for career advancement and more money. We'd tower above them. It would be a shoe-in. But was Bobby up to the challenge? Having been on an enforced Stonebow diet of Weetabix, unsweetened yoghurt and powdered Diazepam for the last five days, he wasn't exactly sparkling with bons mots. "Let's bring on a substitute" suggested my friend Simon Brown. "An actor who'll give an Oscar-winning performance. Know anybody we can ask?" A friend of a friend knew Derek Jacobi, who regularly visits Hereford. It just so happened that we was booked to give a poetry reading at The Courtyard the following week. Derek agreed to see us between rehearsals. I took a thespian friend along for moral support. After we'd outlined the idea, Derek seemed keen to impersonate Bobby. "I could do you my 'I Claudius' role if you like: come on in a Roman toga perhaps?" "No luvvie - more low-key, more twentieth century," said my friend. "Then how about my Hitler from 'Inside The Third Reich'?" "Less hostile, sweetie: this is a man who wants to be a highly-paid, paper-pushing 'suit' - not a megalomaniac mass murderer!" We settled for the character from 'Last Tango in Halifax' and Derek went back to rehearsals. The job interview was a doddle. The interview board comprised John Jarvis (chairman), the Dean of Hereford and the Salvation Army lady who sits in the porch of the Butter Market. Of the three other candidates, one had to withdraw after police discovered child porn on his office computer's hard drive; one was rejected because of a pendinng charge of embezzlement of council taxes; and the third missed her appointment because her train into Hereford was cancelled. By all accounts, our substitute played a blinder, peppering his answers with 'fit-for-purposes like a parakeet. Result! We celebrated in The Barrels with a brace of Special Brews. Stage Two, of my masterplan to rebuild Bobby's Sovereign Wealth Fund, was to get him unscathed through his first days work on the Plough Lane treadmill. At 9am sharp we were met in the lobby of the council's palatial hq by a woman who'd make a Holloway jailer look as attractive as Katie Price. Black-died pudding basin hairstyle; West Mercia police-issue blue shirt; black serge trousers; Doc Marten boots; three security lanyards; and a plastic-coated clipboard with a Hoople logo. "For your first morning's induction," she barked, "you'll be shown all fire exits and assembly points; you will be taken on a tour of our toilet facilities; and you will attend a one-hour seminar on the correct useage of waste paper baskets. After a coffee break, you'll be briefed on the correct procedure for filling in our triplicate stationery requisition forms. Then it'll be lunchtime". Lunch turned out to be rather good. In the canteen on the 9th floor (they've built themselves a high-rise extension at the back) we enjoyed a 5-course meal plus a bottle of Chateau Lafite. All for £1.95p. At 2.30pm the black-haired harridan returned for Bobby's one-on-one 'Computer Familiarisation' session. She ushered us into a space the size of a five-a-side football pitrch. "This is your office," she snarled. "What's that in the corner?" Bobby asked. "That's your computer." Turning to a nerdish young man who had followed us in, she snapped: "Derek - take Mr Bobby through the controls, will you please?" We walked across to admire the electronic monster as Derek began a nasal diatribe. "It's a twin-cam, turbo-charged Pentium Drive HP6000. Ninety-three trillion megabytes. This baby's so fast it can create a 96-page report before you've even thought of the title! He patted its side lovingly. "Cross-dressing widgets in all modes." "Any questions?" barked our guard. "Err...what exactly does it...err...do?" asked Bobby. "Do? DO? It's a bloody computer - YOUR computer!" "Sorry, I'm probably not making myself clear here. What exactly IS a computer?" You could've heard a widget-pin drop. Derek broke the silence. "Have you...err...not used a computer before?" "Never even seen one. Neat isn't it? Can it get 'Match Of The Day?" The guard dropped her clipboard on the carpet and screamed "Jeeeez!" Then swiftly regaining her composure, she snatched up the desk's phone from its cradle. "Tracey? Sabrina here. I need an urgent video conference call with the chief executive. When? NOW!" ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................ Half-an-hour later, after much toing-and-froing, phone calls and paper shuffling, we found ourselves in an overheated, windowless conference room in the basement, seated behind a large oval mahogany table. Opposite sat Sabrina, a legalistic bloke who never spoke and a man I recognised as Alistair Neill, Herefordshire Council's Chief Executive. With a nod from Neill, the legalistic bloke slid three sets of documents across the table in front of Bobby. "The papers on your left," said Sabrina, "are your Severance and Remuneration Package. The one in the middle is our standard Non-Disclosure Undertaking. You will discuss this matter with no-one, not even your cat! The one on the right is an Official Receipt for the return of your security lanyards, car parking disc, luncheon vouchers and all council-owned paperclips. Please sign them all immediately." "Did you say something about remuneration?" Bobby asked plaintively. Neill coughed nervously and whispered to Sabrina who replied curtly: "An electronic credit transfer for one year's salary - £165,000 less deductions - will be made to your bank account by the end of the day." "Deductions?" I queried. "Your lunch!" she snapped, reaching for a calculator. Two persons at £1.95p. So the net payment works out at...........£164,996.12p." At 4.50pm - less than eight hours since we'd walked in, and almost £165K richer - we strolled out of that Plough Lane lubyanka and into The Plough Inn opposite. We were the first customers. Bobby approached the bar. "Got any Chateau Lafite, guvnor?" The landlord bellowed down to the cellars through the opened hatch. "Oi Doreen - has that 2010 Chateau Lafite Rothschild come in yet?" "Nah!" "Sorry gents, we're waiting for a delivery from France today. It's all them buggers in the council offices over the road. Anything else I can get you?" "Make it two Carlsberg Special Brews," said King Bobby. (The author wishes to make it clear that this is a work of fiction).

Tippy-toeing up to the opening of your thatched hut, on that remote Caribbean isle, whispering sweet nothings and bringing gifts of deep-fried battered cod-and-chips? Would the head of this long line of female seductresses by any chance be known as Princess Patricia?

There are roundabouts and roundabouts (and perleaze don't mention the words Milton Keynes or I'll have a hissy fit) and I'd suggest that the Asda roundabout - designed by our jackbooted friends at the We-love-trees Highways Agency, must rank at the bottom of the Beacham's Powder League Table. Spanish roundabouts are a different matter altogether. For starters, their diameters are usually greater; signage is clear and precise; where traffic lights are fitted, they are only switch on for emergency use and - this is the best bit - they've always got something interesting perched on a mound in the middle. I've seen iron shunting engines. Gaudi-like abstract mosaic murals and even a twice-life-size bronze of a naked mermaid, though I admit that that probably results in extra rush-hour traffic accidents. So to distract the visitor's gaze away from the hideous cliff-like excrescence at the end of Edgar Street (which I'm convinced grows taller every weekend), couldn't Tesco be persuaded to erect a giant bronze statue of an apple in the roundabout's centre? And do away with the traffic lights.